


Paths of glory

by Ruiniel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Beleriand, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gondolin, Helcaraxë, Middle Earth, Nevrast, Slow Romance, The Silmarillion References, first age arda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26063620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruiniel/pseuds/Ruiniel
Summary: A romance set on the background of the events of the First Age, starting with the Flight of the Ñoldor from Aman to Middle-earth. Or, more frivolously, that in which Glorfindel meets his other half. This is their story. Dark themes, some humor. An even split, or so I hope.---DISCLAIMER: This fan fiction is intended for personal, non-commercial use only. No copyright infringement is intended.
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain & Glorfindel & Original Character(s), Ecthelion of the Fountain & Glorfindel & Turgon of Gondolin, Glorfindel (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s), Glorfindel/Glorfindel's Wife (Tolkien)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33





	1. The Ice - Enduring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurefindil - Glorfindel
> 
> Ambaráto - Aegnor
> 
> Angaráto - Angrod
> 
> Findaráto - Finrod
> 
> Artanis - Galadriel
> 
> Findekáno - Fingon
> 
> Turukáno - Turgon
> 
> Ñolofinwë - Fingolfin
> 
> Fëanáro - Fëanor
> 
> Arafinwë - Finarfin

Ice. As far as the eye could see there was endless, frozen nothingness. His lashes were frosted with a layer of white, and he advanced much like the others - with the brevity of one resigned. _Ever forward, ever forward._ Only recently, the host of Ñolofinwë had been abandoned by his half-brother Fëanáro upon the shores of Aman. The latter took the stolen ships of the Teleri - too few for the entire host to cross at once - and upon reaching Endor burned them, curtailing any path for Ñolofinwë to follow.

He pressed his eyes tightly shut, running a gloved hand over his iced features. Laurefindil still saw the crimson light from the pyres of flame, the black smoke soaring to the skies in ill omen. The fairest crafted ships on all of Arda, become ash. The Elf turned his head as he walked, seeing the rest of the column struggling behind him, shoulders stiff and hunched, their faces grim - fair faces, still imbued with the light of Aman, the only palpable reminder they were there. He had questioned the wisdom of this resolution to brave the bitter waste against the will of many among their host; but for many, the shame of returning to face judgment for their deeds at the Swanhaven was a hard outcome to bear, and Ñolofinwë decided against a retreat.

Now, as the Elf watched them falter and shrink from the cold under their light, unsuitable garments, he wondered. He glanced upward, where the stars were barely visible beyond a thick layer of fog in the evernight. Before, in Valinor, they had the Trees, their cycle aiding to measure the passing of time. Now there was nothing, and they marched for long periods without rest or light, the stars hidden from sight as though Varda herself shielded them away in sanction.

Were they lost and forever dispossessed, as the Emissary declared? The harsh, prescient words were ingrained into them all. Most exiles had quavered, and many would have returned then, but for the strength and will of their leaders.

_For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow._

The very concept had been foreign until recently. The thrashing waves, ebbing crimson from the docks. White sand stained red.

_Death._

_Alqualondë._

The scenes of horror all crashed over him again - their memory would never fade. The sights, the eerie silence broken by the wailing of their kind; the moment he saw death staining the lands at the very feet of the Valar.

He slipped on the ice beneath his fine soled boots and losing his balance, fell to the ground. Slow to rise, he took deep breaths, staying the tide of emotion cutting through him. Many fell on their journey, lost to battle or the ice, and a long road lay ahead for the ones left behind. Laurefindil had lost his father to the treacherous crossing. He thought of Aistion, then of his mother, Wirya. She was among those who chose Valinor over exile, returning to Aman with Arafinwë upon first warning from the Valar. The Elf thought back to the silent farewell of his parents - the last image of them together. But at least his mother was safe now, or so he hoped. As the Trees withered, all had seen that not even the hallowed realm was impregnable before the Black Foe.

And then, not long into their journey upon the Ice, his father Aistion fell with a sudden cracking of the frost beneath them, and the black waters engulfed his body before his son or others could reach him. The blink of an eye, and he was alone. The waters were icy and as perilous as the ice, and falling in meant near certain death. Yes, now Laurefindil knew of death. He wondered, yet again, how long it would take to cross this barren desert of mist, and how many would reach the lands they sought. As he walked, mulling over his thoughts, he again thought of treachery.

The mists gave way ahead, revealing clear, crisp darkness, and the stars appeared in short, weak flickers. The Elves followed, until at last they were beneath the patch of clear sky and soon they raised closely knit camps, where resources were shared for the common survival of all. Some would kindle small fires fed by remnants of their carts and supply containers as these dwindled.

Laurefindil walked among them, watching folk swiftly take refuge by the weak flames or in hastily rise tents. Everyone rested little, ate less, but then, of course, there was little nourishment in a place of frozen earth and mist. His thoughts turned to his father again, his bright gaze seeking the light of the fires. The cold was bitter now, and he needed to keep walking. They would endure. They must—

Laurefindil ceased in his steps. It was peculiar, but he thought he heard... music?

Without warning, memories of Tirion struck. He discerned the refrain of a known ode; a good one at that. A light instrument, and a voice that glittered with trilling warmth like summer birdsong. The Elf shed the layer of sprinkling snow from his cloak, seeking the source. He soon came to a vulnerable fire, where a group clustered together. Despite their hardships, the Eldar still sought comfort in song and stories of their former bliss, even amid this unforeseen, trying journey.

The notes of a flute reached the golden-haired Elf, and his gaze strayed to the singer - a dark-haired Elf bundled in threads of blue and grey. Laurefindil listened, and the cold gave way to memories of another life. The voice from before joined in song, adding to the reverie, and in him pooled reviving warmth.

His gaze settled on the one seated close to the flute player. Her face had a slight smattering of freckles, and her hair shone auburn from the weak flame. Her words sighed with the flute, adding dimension to the story.

_Rejoice that ye have found it,_

She sang of Tirion. Her face was stony, unlike the passion in her voice. It was an odd contrast with the uplifting words, but no less intriguing. It was as though a strange tide swept him away.

_And rest... from endless war,_

He remembered lush gardens, gold and silver lights mingling and coloring the hills. The cries of eagles soaring towards Taniquetil. His eyes alighted on escaped locks of dark copper.

When her eyes shifted from the flames and cut to his, Laurefindil noticed he had been staring. The maiden looked away, seeking the flames as she began her refrain.

_For the city 'tis,_

_that stands upon the hill..._

She leaned into the dark-haired one, who had ceased playing, his arm come around her shoulders. Laurefindil briefly wondered about their connection, before her voice again lifted and sent him beyond time, before the murder of the High King and the theft of the Silmarilli; before the kin slaying, and the paths on the Ice.

His chin tipped to the skies, and thoughts of his father took him again. He saw the thick mists had returned, shrouding the patch of stars. There was little else to do but move forward. His gaze fell upon the group again, and the auburn Elf woman. Despite it all, they were here, freezing and struggling. He drew his cloak closer around his shoulders and turned on his heel, fast steps leading away from the campfire. He departed to seek his own wares, eager to flee that voice and the memories it wrought. But even to the ends of the night, far as he was, he heard it.

_... where all who strive, find hope and valour still..._

回 回 回

He opened a bleary eye to the stirring camp. His limbs were numb and his neck ached from the unseemly position he'd fallen asleep in, propped against one cartwheel, close to where Ñolofinwë and his kin dwelt. He stood, shedding the fine ice dust from his cloak, and rose to full height. Stretching his arms and legs, he turned and rummaged through the cart to retrieve a bow and a quiver with arrows.

Laurefindil began a slow march, his feet heedful of the slippery ice. A few known figures emerged and crossed his path as he walked. Tents lined the vastness of the terrain, and other folk were stirring. Judging by their inner rhythm, the time of rising had arrived; the lingering ties to Aman yet ruled their inclinations and habits.

The Elf gazed towards the jagged mountains of ice rising ahead, spears through the fog. The host had made little progress, and their supplies, once sufficient until they reached green Endor, were dwindling and sparse. With a sigh, he walked on. Despite not falling upon any land-dwelling life in this place, by instinct his hand lingered on the hilt of his sword.

He gained speed to regain some warmth, looking left and right for a familiar face. Fewer of them walked the wastes now, compared to the start of their journey.

"Findë!" a clear voice reached him from somewhere to his right, and the Elf ceased his swift stride.

He was easy to distinguish among the rest of the grey-cloaked folk. Despite the enveloping shadows, his smile was light and genuine.

"Ambaráto," Laurefindil greeted, answering the son of Arafinwë with a nod.

"Were you not joining us? The others are ready to depart."

They were of the same height and of similar build, he and Ambaráto, and knew each other well owing to his father's long years in the service of Arafinwë in Tirion. During his younger years, Laurefindil met and befriended the offspring of Finwë's youngest. They had spent much time together in Aman, and now, looking upon his friend, those carefree recollections came strange and bitter.

He forged a smile as the other Elf neared him. "Would I miserably be marching through the chill at this unseemly hour otherwise?"

Ambaráto gave a mirthful grunt, placing an arm around the other's shoulders. "Come now, let us now together explore the loveliness of this...," he looked to the desolate view, "... of this vast icy waste, and perhaps find something to keep us going until we reach the _next_ icy waste."

"How are you in such a good mood precisely?" Laurefindil muttered. "Did you have some of that odd weed Olórin was partial to?" he teased as the two friends fell in step together, and his spirits felt lighter at the memory. Ambaráto had the habit of subverting or bending relatively harmless rules, even surpassing his sister Artanis in their past wanderings in abandoned Tirion. "I always wondered how you kept snatching the stuff from Irmo's gardens," he added.

Ambaráto gave him a long-suffering look. "For the thousandth time, it was never _snatched_ , and tried only twice after hunting-"

Laurefindil waved his words away, his face regaining its past light. "No need to defend your vices before me," he spoke as the other rolled his eyes. "And your brothers?..."

Ambaráto frowned as he looked to the tall mountains of ice. "Angaráto and Findaráto are already at the meeting place."

The two friends walked on in silence, until before them hailed an assembled group, armed and speaking lowly among themselves.

The golden-haired Elf peered to see the towering figure of Ñolofinwë, grim and surrounded by his men, some of whom Laurefindil recognized from his own previous visits in Tirion at the house of Arafinwë. There were also his sons, whom the Elf knew mainly from formal gatherings and celebrations. Findekáno the eldest shared words with his father. His brother Turukáno stood nearby, speaking with one whom Laurefindil also concluded to know: the dark-haired flute player from the previous night who mellowed their grief with song. He stood as though the frost had no bearing on him, his head held high, sable hair braided back in a heavy plait.

Laurefindil wondered whether he was a man of Turukáno then, just as the voice of Ambaráto reached him, and they went to find the eldest son of Arafinwë. They followed in an orderly line, the few leaders walking ahead with the handful of their men chosen to explore the area. In this place on the Ice, they had finally found temporary shelter from the freezing winds lashing at them. The rows of ice cliffs, rising taller on either side, aided in that respect. And they needed a reprieve. Of course, searching for nourishment became imperative, as was surveying the area to preempt possible peril.

They extinguished all light sources and followed the winding slopes, quiet and heeding any shadows or movement their way.

"I have yet to see any land-dwelling creature here," Ambaráto spoke. To their left now hailed a chain of ragged formations, and to their right was a long, wide rift in the deep ice. Far ahead, impenetrable mists floated on endless black waters.

"Ambaráto," Laurefindil whispered, pointing to what caught his attention.

After staring for a few moments, his friend hastened forward to call for his brother.

Laurefindil gaped. The formless apparitions trapped his gaze, and his feet took him closer. He grasped his bow and nocked an arrow, sensing the others following.

"Be on your guard," one said somewhere to his right, and from the corner of his eye, Laurefindil again saw the dark-haired flute player. He moved with stealth, wraithlike, his feet soundless upon the frozen ground.

The strangest creatures ever encountered. The Eldar had seen nothing of the like on the shores of Aman.

Their large bodies burst with muscle and fat. Great tusks protruded from their jaws. Their heads were shaped peculiarly, and their movement was sluggish.

"They appear... harmless," Laurefindil lowered his bow, seeing Ambaráto returned to his side.

"That may be so, but it is also the only sign of life we have seen above water so far, not to mention all we found this entire time of searching," Ambaráto retorted. "My lord uncle has just given leave to try."

Laurefindil saw the others raise their weapons. He looked back to the slow-moving beasts. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and aimed his bow anew. It seemed cruel, but they had to do things like this to survive this place. He took a deep intake of breath.

"Do it," Ambaráto murmured from beside him, his own bow taut. "The meat will feed many for days. The hide will serve many purposes, as may the bones and tusks."

He had killed nothing as large before - only game small in comparison, in the sloping forests near Tirion. But now death had been weaved into their lives, and he had to shoot.

There was a sharp hiss to his right, and turning, he saw an arrow loosened, spearing one beast. A clean kill.

The rest of the herd were now hurrying to the edge of the ice, back into the waters.

"They are escaping!" he heard someone cry, and with one last moment of hesitation, his fingers tensed on the string as he found a target. _Shoot, damn you._

Before he could release, the beast fell struck by another perfectly fired arrow.

Blinking slowly, the Elf looked to find the dark-haired flute player lowering his bow. For once Laurefindil felt warm despite the frost, and his head lowered, his breathing fast and uneven.

A hand on his shoulder startled him. "It may take some getting used to." Findaráto was the one speaking.

Laurefindil merely nodded, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "You never know. I may just be more useful next time," he shook his head.

Ambaráto made his appearance between them. "Come now, enough chatter, we have work to do," he wearily drew two long knives from his belt.

They returned with their quarry late and sent word to those able to help skin and portion the meat.

None were exempt from the work. Laurefindil knelt close to a fire built as a source of light, his cloak discarded to the side. A knife was in his hand as he worked to finish skinning their quarry. He used a similar technique he remembered from hunting in the forests of Valinor, but the sheer mass and weight made it long and arduous work. At least the effort kept him warm. He looked to his hands, now bloodied to their wrists. A raw smell and warm steam rose in the air from their unusual kill. The Elf lifted his head and looked to the others, making do with the improvised tools available.

His breath rose misty into the night, and the fires painted his radiant tresses in bright red, gathered tightly over one shoulder. It was snowing, and silent flakes layered him in a light coat of white. Laurefindil was thankful for the fire, such as it was, dreading the future when their supply of wood would dwindle. He tried to see ripened fields instead of hard ice, to think of summer gold instead of the bloodied crimson mass beneath his hands.

A light scent, almost flowery, completely opposed to that of fresh, freezing blood.

Laurefindil stopped his movement and lifted his head, frowning.

Bright blue met hazel, and she appeared upset, her face drawn and sullen. She held a metal container with steaming water, which she placed down near him.

"For your hands," the auburn-haired maiden said.

Laurefindil nodded and lathered his hands in the hot water, which was warmer than the blood thankfully, and his stiffened fingers regained some mobility. "Thank you," he settled, unsure of what else to say as he took the skinning knife again.

"I am here for the hide," came her raspy voice.

Looking up, the Elf was met with an expectant look. Her hair was tucked inside her hood this time, and a thin thread of auburn was in her eye. She appeared to take no heed of it.

"Have you finished?" the maiden asked into his silent stare when he said nothing, the look in her eyes turned questioning and rather impatient.

Laurefindil blinked. "I need more time." He was working faster now, seeing as she was apparently tasked with retrieving the hide to be treated. His focus drifted to her feet, still standing before him, then back to his work. He stopped after a while and looked up again. "Are you going to wait here?"

"It is not as though we are hurrying anywhere, is it?" she bit back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing.

Laurefindil narrowed his eyes. "I could bring it over if you tell me where. But it may take a while longer-"

"Here," she said firmly, retrieving a blade from her belt and kneeling close. She began working alongside him. "Works faster in two."

Laurefindil raised an eyebrow but did not stop her, and their heads came bent together over their task; the fresh scent of warm blood lingered in the air, rising sickly and heavy around them.

Her hands, though small and fine, worked fast enough, and Laurefindil had to admit she flicked the blade expertly, wasting no movement.

Soon she was humming - a gleeful lay, reminding him of careless days spent riding through the fields of Aman, and Laurefindil felt his spirits lift. But each stroke of the knife kept him anchored to the dismal present, no matter how it felt to hear about the past.

He kept his peace at first but when the joyous notes continued, oblivious to their pitiful state, Laurefindil stopped his movements. "Must you do that?" he snapped. His eyes cut to hers.

She flinched a little and ceased singing; the sounds fell as clipped wings between them.

Then her own eyes narrowed, but she focused back on their work without a word. "If the memories affect you so, perhaps you should not have followed," she murmured after a time.

Before he could find a fitting retort, she had taken a handful of snow and rubbed it between her bloodied hands. She stood, drying her palms fast against her cloak. "Done."

Laurefindil rose as well, wrapping the hide in a manageable way, and handed it to her. She spared him not a glance but turned and strode away, swaying a little under her carried burden.

"What is your name?" the question escaped of its own ridiculous volition, accompanied by a sudden urge to aid her.

She had not gone that far, so she must have heard him. But the _nís_ never turned, walking ahead until her figure disappeared, engulfed by the falling curtain of snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be an AU story set in the First Age, following the generic canon events, from the Flight of the Ñoldor, to Nevrast, to Gondolin.
> 
> The OC (Ilvanya) and this interpretation of Glorfindel are the same I used in "Paths Afire". This can be considered a prequel to that story.
> 
> Lines used from the original works:
> 
> "For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow." - Quenta Silmarillion, Of the Flight of the Ñoldor.
> 
> The lyrics of the song in this chapter are from The Lays of Beleriand, "II. Poems Early Abandoned: The Lay of the Fall of Gondolin". They reference Gondolin, but I took bits and pieces to suggest Tirion (the city after which Turgon modeled Gondolin).


	2. The Ice - Falling through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Fatemeh68 - thank you for the kick.
> 
> Names glossary:
> 
> Laurefindil - Glorfindel
> 
> Ambaráto - Aegnor
> 
> Angaráto - Angrod
> 
> Findaráto - Finrod
> 
> Artanis - Galadriel
> 
> Findekáno - Fingon
> 
> Turukáno - Turgon
> 
> Ñolofinwë - Fingolfin
> 
> Fëanáro - Fëanor
> 
> Arafinwë - Finarfin
> 
> Írimë (Lalwen)
> 
> Írissë - Aredhel
> 
> Itarillë - Idril

The heat of weak flames lapped at his face as Laurefindil stared into the kindled fire. Around him were others gathered, including friends and known faces from Tirion and close kin of Ñolofinwë, their leader.

Watching the one whose father had been cruelly slain and would be remembered, among others, as the first murder to stain the land of Valinor, Laurefindil could not help but feel deep sympathy for the son of the late High King; it reminded the Elf of his own loss.

The ice cracked and shifted. The waters were moving darkness. He had tried to reach his father but was too slow from the chill, weakened by the frost. They all were. Aistion had been lost in moments.

"Not the merriest gathering, are we," the voice of Ambaráto reached him as the other golden Elf took his place close to Laurefindil. It was a necessity the followers of Ñolofinwë had discovered on the Ice - huddling for warmth, to preserve body heat.

"Get used to it," Laurefindil murmured, watching the drawn faces around them. Even speaking meant wasting precious energy, and they were all weary. He kept his silence, listening to the whispers rising like ghosts in the fog. "Right about now, Telperion would be in bloom," he said after some time, kindling the memory of mingling lights.

Ambaráto said nothing.

Like most others, he missed the Trees, the silver-gold stream of lights bathing Aman in warm power - its primeval, hallowed strength. This remote darkness was thick, choking, bearing heavier down upon them.

Laurefindil gazed across the fire, where presently golden-haired Findaráto was deep in conversation with one son of Ñolofinwë. It was the prince Turukáno, dark of hair and bright-eyed like his father.

Another flash of gold and a giggle had him turn his head; a small child bundled in thick garments burst amongst the grim gathering, heading straight to the dark-haired Elf prince, her tiny arms wide open, seeking an embrace. A tall Elf woman followed, her rich braid shining in the ragged light. She was Elenwë of the Vanyar, spouse of Turukáno - the only one of her kin to brave exile.

Laurefindil smiled as the child was brought in, and Turukáno took her upon his knee as she began chirping of having seen a patch of clear sky, but then she blinked and it was gone, all too soon, and it was still so cold here, and would they be much longer in reaching the Eastern lands great uncle Fëanáro spoke of?

Laurefindil saw Turukáno hugging the girl tighter; Findaráto looked away.

"Dearest Itarillë," Ambaráto spoke, regarding the daughter of his cousin fondly, "I ask myself the same every moment."

Laurefindil shook his head. The child's innocence and the forced smile on the son of Ñolofinwë stirred his dread for their loss, and as many nights before, the company and whispers grew tiresome, and solitude became an appealing prospect.

"Send your brothers my regards," he made his farewell to Ambaráto after seeing the golden-haired Vanya take her place close to prince Turukáno, drawing little Itarillë in her lap.

Their family reminded him of his own early youth when they were content and the shadow of unrest had not yet descended upon them. There was no darkness, no death - no thirst for revenge, no exile.

Laurefindil mulled over the last word as he cut across the gusty chill, his figure a tall specter wading in the night.

回 回 回

He stalked towards his own tent, passing other temporary dwellings raised - ones aimed to be used in mild weathered Endor, which now proved little aid against the sharp chill of this land. The tips of his fingers stiff in his gloves, the Elf dreaded the grey cold that would again seep into his bones, vicious and swift, as if seeking to crack them from within. The fog lifted around him, so thick he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. But it was not long before the mists in his path cleared as a strong wind shivered into the starless gloom. Laurefindil shivered along with it, feeling its rushed tendrils reach beneath his garments.

As he walked, his mind unaware and drifting, he discerned a known intonation. Words formed and reached him.

"But the ladies Artanis and Írissë accompany you, I have seen the lady Írissë fletching her arrows."

The voice. Laurefindil nearly stopped walking. He remembered hazel eyes and rounded lips, bluish from the cold.

"Need I repeat they are your elders, versed both in the hunt and with a blade, requiring no safeguarding." Another voice; male, warm. But this time it was cutting, tired.

The other speaker was known to him as well, but Laurefindil failed to place the intonation.

"How can you think me so weak - mother, tell him!"

Another voice joined as Laurefindil drew closer, and the words grew more distinct.

"Your father speaks true. We know nothing of this place or its perils. Scouting missions are best left to those fit to lead them."

"But I am of age! And have I ever failed my training? Have we not hunted together countless times before?"

"Be reasonable. You see how slow we advance, how many have been lost already-"

"Yes," came the now seething words, "And I cannot forget. But I also see, father, how this comes as a useful cover for your own selfish fears."

Laurefindil in the meantime came to be a few steps from the tent as other words were exchanged, and a flurry of wild hair swirled outside before him, hastily covered by a hood. Her long frame stiffened from the cold, and she glanced over her shoulder as Laurefindil lifted his gaze.

Their eyes met; she flinched at the foreign presence and swiftly turned, pacing away, her cloak wrapped tightly around her body.

He had lengthened his stride, following the figure that took the same path towards his own tent, wondering briefly at what he heard. _Hot-headed_ was the first notion coming to mind. He remembered her. He remembered too her brisk manner when they first spoke, her impatience. There came an upward curl of his lips at the thought.

He was walking and walking, and then he was frowning as Laurefindil saw the Elf maiden was treading - no, stalking - farther and farther away from the encampment. The Elf had walked past his own tent, going faster as she strode on, far into the evernight.

Surely she did not mean to wander off into the unknown, alone and - from what he could see - weaponless? Yet at a reasonable distance from her, Laurefindil called out - which reminded him she never gave her name. Thus he settled for, "My lady!"

There came no answer, and she only seemed to march faster. Laurefindil swore in his mind, and before even considering any attempted, well-informed reasons why, he followed. He soon reached her with his long steps, walking to her right. "Doubtless our host had already come this way, there is nothing more to explore."

Her head swiveled towards him, eyes narrowed, mouth restless. "Who even _are_ you - no, I don't care. See to your own!" She turned away, gloved hands balled into fists.

Stunned for a moment by such unfriendliness, he spoke. "You cannot endanger yourself like this. It is irresponsible, and all the more reason for your father to not allow you your wish." The words were blurted from the pieces of dialogue he had heard, and he immediately regretted them. Stars of Varda, who was she to him? No one.

She had ceased walking and was staring at him wide-eyed, her mouth agog. Then her frown deepened, and her gaze held an angry flicker. "My lord, or _whatever_ you are, first, eavesdropping on people is degraded and crooked, and secondly I demand you turn around and leave me be." She rushed onward again.

Laurefindil looked on with concern to the pristine bed of snow gleaming coldly in the unlight. How could anyone be so accursedly stubborn? "Wait, the terrain might be—"

What he saw robbed him of speech as her figure fastly disappeared beneath the snows with a gasp of terrified awe.

Laurefindil rushed to the very spot, his heart hammering in much the same way it had for his father. He saw a narrow crevice, and gaping darkness where the snow had been.

"Are you all right?" he called, peering into the gloom.

"What kind of question is that?" came the pained, croaked words.

Laurefindil sighed and counted two breaths. He willed his own unease to recede. "Do you sense anything broken?" Through the darkness, his keen eyes found her.

Her voice was strained when she spoke, a sign she tried movement. "I cannot rise. My leg... I must have- ah!"

The elf looked behind them. They were quite a distance away from the encampment.

"My lady," he called back to her.

At first, there was silence.

"None of that _my lady_ nonsense."

"I bet you your father would disagree," Glorfindel muttered to himself with a powerful surge of odd relief, keeping her talking as he sought for a way to reach her without injuring himself.

"What?! He does not own me!" she glared upward, as though he caused all her woes and more.

Spoken louder than he had thought, then. Something shifted deep within him, and despite the situation, a smile brimmed. "Keep your voice low, will you? Who knows what lurks down there."

The abrupt silence told him his words worked far better than he had foreseen. After checking the ragged walls, the Elf hooked his feet on one side for a descent. "I will come down to you."

Her panicked voice reached him, indignant and unsettled. "What, no! You must go for the others!"

"And leave you down here, alone, and unable to rise?" he cut to her. "You are faster than you think. We're quite a way's distance from the camp." Aided by her slight hesitation, he followed. "I am coming down."

He anchored himself and descended through the opening, gripping and finding purchase onto the rock and ice, and finally dropped into the shadows, carefully landing on his feet. He found her lying down, propped on her arms. Her left leg was in an awkward position.

Laurefindil fell to one knee beside her and reached for her ankle - she hissed in pain. "It could be only a sprain," he whispered, feeling the disquiet of her fëa, surrounding her like a shield. He gazed ahead - darkness, but for a faded bluish light that lined the walls of a wider cavernous space. But his main care was another now.

He tore a long strip of cloth from his cloak and looked her in the eye. "May I?"

She watched him with unrest and wariness, then nodded.

"Does anything else hurt?" he lowered his gaze to her leg.

The maiden winced, shifting a little. "Yes, but not broken, I don't think."

Gently, he removed her boot and wrapped her ankle around with the cloth as she fought another yelp of pain. He had some knowledge of this from his days of hunting and riding games back in Tirion.

When he was done, the Elf placed her boot back on, thinking that should be good enough for the time being. Her ankle might swell soon. Laurefindil inspected their surroundings again, and this time noticed a natural corridor coated in sharp, crystal clear ice, leading to an unknown path. He glanced upward with worry and unease. There was no way he could haul himself back up there with her on his back. "We must attempt a way out, through the tunnel," he said matter-of-factly.

He expected protests from the little he knew of her, but there came none. Only a question.

"And what if there is no way out?" Her fear wound around him again, red and powerless.

"We must try," Laurefindil stated, in a voice he hoped was steady enough. Then, perhaps the nature of their predicament making him bolder, he caught her gaze in the darkness. There were the tiniest flecks of green lights in her eyes. "Unless you wish to crawl along, you will need to be carried; on my back or in my arms." Her choice.

He might have heard her grit her teeth, might have heard her muttering a low, "Eru help me, of all the beings to be trapped in an ice cave with..."

But in the end, they carried on, the girl fastened upon his back, her legs anchored around his hips, her arms around his neck.

It was quite uncomfortable, though her weight posed little hindrance, and an unwelcome heat irked whenever the Elf had to shift her up and she pressed more into his back, whenever her thighs tightened around him. It was far more distracting than he had thought, and with all his might Laurefindil set his senses on the path ahead as he paced evenly through the cave. Its walls were diapered with patches of ice as clear as gems, and long shards of ice fell like fangs to the floor from the high ceilings. A glow, faint at first, became brighter as they walked, rising like blue starlight.

"How... is this possible?" the girl wondered, mirroring his own awe. Light at such depths was a wonder to behold. "Others could benefit from this," she spoke swiftly, "No winds, and do you feel it is warmer here?" the maiden asked, and possibly from excitement, her grip around his neck grew tighter so that Laurefindil hissed a strangled breath. She hastily loosened her hold. "Forgive me," came a swift mumble, "I did not mean it."

"No harm done," Laurefindil said on a cough. "I would expect no better courtesy," he added a few moments later. "After all, you have not even given me your name," he spoke, at once feeling utterly absurd. The light now limned their figures in a reminder of azure skies.

"Neither did you," came the retort.

He was smiling again, and his sharp awareness of her at his back struck strangely. It was not at all unpleasant now, but...

 _Unsettling_ might have been a better way to describe it. Her tense limbs and heaving chest gave him pause, as did the fact that he could barely ignore the sensations this closeness awoke in him. Every inch where their bodies touched felt warm, warmer than Laurefindil had been in a long while, and the Elf wondered if the Valar had lain various curses of this sort on them all.

No, the Valar surely had better things to worry about - which left him the sole owner of this novel predicament.

"I am called Laurefindil, at your service." The words came bland to his ears.

Her heartbeat burned at his back; he heard nothing but the echoing rush of a stream gushing elsewhere in the distance.

There was a little shift, and as he walked Laurefindil felt soft strands pressing against his cheek, and he nearly stumbled with her soft words in his ear.

"And I, Ilvanya," she said, oblivious to how the Elf swayed a little in his steps.

The ice beneath his feet gave way to hard rock and earth, and a wide gallery opened before them.

"Then, lady Ilvanya-"

" _Please_ will you dispense with the titles," she demanded again, sounding tired.

"Fine." The beast. "Ilvanya," he repeated her name to the darkness, and a strange sense akin to peace flooded him. He shook it off like fine ice. "Let us see how we get ourselves out of here."


	3. The Ice - Underworld

They had been striding along the ice caves for a long while in silence, until at last, they reached another cavernous chamber, boasting a high ceiling that seemed to stretch on forever. The same faint lights gleamed weakly off the walls, and long shards of ice speared the ground in places like fangs in an enormous maw.

Laurefindil had warmed considerably - a welcome change from being ever cold. The silent maiden did not complain about being jolted while being carried, and he had not yet tired. Still, he wondered at her present state. "Shall we stop for a respite?" he asked.

There was a sigh. "Of course; if you need the rest," she mumbled against his shoulder.

Deciding against saying this was for her benefit, Laurefindil sought a place where rock layered the ground rather than ice, and there he descended with his burden to the cave floor. Ilvanya relinquished her grip on him as she turned aside, ensuring her injured ankle did not get in the way.

They gazed at the meager glow dusting the smooth iced walls, watching this strange underworld as it lay drowned in its eerie stillness. The silence was deep, cut only by the echoes and wailing of the ice as it shifted and ground itself into the upper layers above them. Laurefindil dared not consider, at this time, how much longer they'd have to traipse through this place to reach the surface - or whether they would find a way outside. He glanced at Ilvanya.

She was inspecting her injury with a deepening frown. "It's swelling further," she said, grimacing in pain.

It was, indeed; one could tell the difference when looking at her other ankle.

She met his gaze, which Laurefindil held with an ease he never suspected of himself.

"Do you think the others will deem us lost?" she asked, her voice soft, close to meek compared to the furious rebuke before her fall.

It was a sensible question; some were never heard from again: blizzards and other perils claimed their numbers before. Some folk had been separated from the main host and vanished, either drowned or crushed by the treacherous moving ice platforms that cracked beneath their feet.

Laurefindil raised his head up to the high ceiling. "Do not fret. If nothing else, you have ones who will worry and seek for you, I am certain of it."

Feeling her eyes on him, he looked her way, recalling her demeanor and harsh words stemming from frustration. "I was in passing when I overheard your... argument," he motioned indifferently with a flick of his wrist.

Ilvanya crossed her arms, the remnant of a smile brimming on her tired face. She was not the fairest of the Eldar, not by far; her upturned nose crinkled. "I did not mean all I said to you before."

"Not _all_ of it?" Laurefindil snorted in derision. "Now that is an apology worthy of a high king."

"Well," she hastened to add, "at that time you seemed to meddle in matters not concerning you, lord Laurefindil."

He offered a faded smile of his own. "One mistake I rue, believe me. And what was it you said about titles?"

Her eyes narrowed; she shook her head, looking away, just as he absently tucked a golden strand behind his ear, savoring a minor victory.  
Laurefindil gazed back into the gloom. He tried to see if there was any way to climb without difficulty towards the outside world. There was nothing. He rose to stand and began walking in circles not too far from her, inspecting the ceiling and the walls.

"You are of the Vanyar."

Blinking, he turned and saw her gaze drift away from his exposed ear. Aside from the obvious traits such as his fair hair, the tips of his ears were longer and sharper than those of the Noldorin kin.

"My mother is of the Vanyar," the Elf said, his eyes yet on the ceiling and the ice-clad walls. "She returned with the host of Arafinwë."

"Oh," the maiden hung her head. "But surely you have someone here?..."

Pressure like a granite slate weighed on his chest. Laurefindil met her eyes again. "I journeyed on with my father, but we lost him to the ice."

Her gaze mellowed, and with it, so did some of his dread. "I did not mean to pry," she said.

The Elf waved a hand - as if it did not matter. She said nothing else for a time.

"I miss Tirion."

His gaze snapped back to her. The maiden had slumped forward, her head lowered, staring at her feet.

Laurefindil turned away and walked farther towards the other side. His voice was hollow to his ears, carried by the silence. It was pointless to speak of such things, now. And yet. "What do you miss most about it?" he asked, staring at the cone-shaped icicles hanging from the ceiling.

She tilted her auburn head to the side. "The lights, the stars; so close they seemed, from our high, hidden refuges where we spent our nights - my friends and I; the rolling hills beyond the city in their shades of green and amber. How I sat draped over the balconies of our tall towers, with Oiolossë hailing in the distance; the flap of eagles' wings above me. Each time I saw them, I wondered what tidings they had for lord Manwë. I miss... grass."

"Grass?" the Elf turned her way, a bemused light in his translucent eyes.

"Yes, grass," she smiled. "Lush and soft, as we lazed in the gardens, splayed on the ground, feeding the squirrels. I miss the warm water of our fountains in summer... I miss peace."

Memories came alive as he listened, weaving with his own. "All of this, the yearning and the joy... they were felt in your song," the Elf said at last.

She lifted her head, framed by messy hair, her eyes lit in surprise. Her face became sullen again. "Never would have guessed _you_ were partial to my singing."

He remembered his reaction last time they spoke. Laurefindil strode to her and sat back down by her side; his legs crossed at the ankles, elbows resting on his knees. The truth of the matter was, he would now give much to hear her sing again, but this was not the time. "Why did you pursue this, then?"

"Why did you?" she flung the question back at him.

Laurefindil curled and uncurled his fingers. "I could not abandon my father to uncertainty. I am his only son. And having heard the grand entreaties of Fëanáro, I'd be lying to say they did not stir me, at first."

"It was so for most of us, I wager," she said. "He has the gift of swaying hearts to his purpose, of making that purpose our own. I see that now." She straightened her back, stretching her arms above her head. "It makes his treachery even more shocking. My father is a follower of prince Turukáno, who would not turn back after Swanhaven. We took his path." She sighed.

None spoke again as the deeds at Alqualondë, where kin slew kin, rose fresh like blood between them.

"We ought to move," Laurefindil rubbed his hands together.

Ilvanya agreed as he turned, allowing her to wrap her arms and legs around him again.

"Ilvanya."

"Yes?"

"You might have your misgivings about me, but please leave my hair out of it."

With a secret smile he did not see, she uncurled her fumbling fingers from his unfortunate strands.

Her small hands grasped him, clutching at his shoulders and chest like the claws of some small woodland creature. Laurefindil did his utmost to disregard her warmth, the way her body felt against his back, the way her breath shivered close to his neck.

They traversed the darkness in silence until late, the moaning of the ice grew louder, and they heard incessant cracking coming from all sides.

It was not long before their path narrowed again, so that Laurefindil had to bend at the waist to pass through. "Watch your head," he urged.

"The clamor is louder," she said, her voice bright with hope.

After slipping through the corridor for a long while, barely keeping from falling down twice, they stopped short.

Her heartbeat burst against his back. "A dead end." She shivered.

Before them, a wall of ice. They had climbed for a long time, then descended lower through the underground space and knew not whether they were close to the surface at all.

"Valar, we will never escape this place," her forehead fell against him.

He lay her down on the ground. Her limbs fell slack, her head bowed into her chest. Laurefindil knelt before her, watching her features creased in worry and dread. The sight of it twisted knots inside of him and on impulse, he reached to tip her chin up. "Do not despair. There is always a way."

She jerked her chin from his light touch. "My father... my... my mother..." her lip quivered. "They will worry, they will suffer. And for what? My foolishness." She hid her head in her hands.

"And how does this serve them?" he pointed to her disheveled features. "Ilvanya," he called, his voice grave. "Look at me."

With one last sigh, she did. Her eyes were red-rimmed, forlorn. Her gaze drifted over his face, to the dimples forming in his cheeks as he smiled.

"I will find a way."

She scoffed in disbelief, looking at her hands, running them over her thighs.

Laurefindil stood, grimacing at the stiffness in his legs. He went to the wall of ice, his eyes and hands searching.

The maiden lifted her head at his sudden gasp. "What... what is it?"

"A crevice - there is a fissure here." He closed one eye as he peered through a place in the wall she could not see. "There are... I see the mists; beyond this wall is the night!" he looked her way again, and she gaped at his brightened features. He turned back to the ice. "We must break through," he looked left and right. "It would take some time, but it is our only chance. I need a tool." He looked down at her. "Stay here. I will return."

"Be on your guard!" she called as he sped away.

The Elf returned holding a rock, sharp and jagged at the edges, and began using it as a pick against the ice, striking at the hard matter around the fissure with all the strength he could muster.

"How can I help?" Ilvanya asked, following his movements from where she yet sat upon the ground.

The Elf brought his messy tresses over one shoulder. "Not freezing to death will be enough," he smirked at her, turning back to his task.

It was slow work, and none could tell how much time had passed, but soon the fissure widened with his toils and beyond it, the Elf glimpsed the vast emptiness - the land of their trials. Gusts of freezing air wailed beyond their confinement. He paused, wiping his forehead with his arm. Not far away, he heard her teeth chattering from the cold, and looking beyond his shoulder saw her trembling, running her hands up and down her body to keep warm.

Laurefindil dropped the makeshift tool and unfastened his cloak, crossing the space between them. He knelt to her again, placing the garment around her shoulders.

"Actually, there is something you can do."

"Oh?" Her eyes were tired, her lips bluish from the chill.

His gaze dipped down between them, then back at her. "Would you sing to me?"

She blinked slowly, her mouth agog. "Sing... what, you mean now?"

"It _is_ tedious work," he said with a wry grin, pointing to the thick layer of ice trapping them. "I would not mind a distraction. Sing of Tirion, of the sea, of whatever you wish."

Her own face split into a pale smile. "It will not be very good. My leg is quite the hindrance to any pleasant mood or inspiration."

"Then sing of strife," he said. "Let your voice run. It matters not."

She sighed, pursing her lips. "Very well. But I will hear no complaints."

Despite himself, he chuckled, a hand to his chest in a promise. "None."

And as Laurefindil turned away to his task, her voice rose in song, cutting through their desolation. He did not know the words this time. She sang of friendship; of hardship and loss.

He worked with renewed vigor, his arm steady, his thought drifting to wild forests and mild seas under starlit skies, and the strength of brighter days.

Her voice bore not the beauty of the previous nights, but it served. A sudden hiss broke through her song, and the maiden startled. "What is wrong?"

Laurefindil briefly looked over his shoulder at her. "Nothing of import. I cut myself in the ice."

"Is it bad?"

He looked to the gash in his palm, widening towards his wrist. He had tried dislodging a wide shard from its place, and his hand slipped. It cut through his gloves, deep into the flesh. Warm blood now drenched his sleeve, seeping rapidly from the wound. He grit his teeth, took a deep breath, and resumed his work.

"Why will you not speak?" her words were urgent as she crawled along the floor towards him.

"I am nearly done."

"You're bleeding!"

"Nothing to do about it now," the Elf said, "Stay back." He struck the frost one last time, then took a step away, and landed a powerful kick to the wall. A block of ice cracked and fell, broken into large chunks on the other side.

A strong, chilly gust lashed at their faces, and they both stared.

"You did it! You did it!" she cried, her glee drowned by the winds.

Relief flooded him as the Elf found her gaze, the rock dropping from his hand. "Yes, we did."

She regarded his wounded hand. "We will tend to that. My mother has a salve." She fumbled to strip a piece of cloth from her own garment. "As soon as we reach camp."

They both glanced beyond the broken wall, over the treacherous terrain they had to cross. The skies were darker. The fog had grown denser.

"If you insist," he said, just as a sting of pain shot through his hand. "But first, we must find it."


End file.
